Disguise
by ZombieXoX
Summary: In which Cyclonus gets drunks and some feelings are improperly construed. Slight dub-con and fluff. Set during MTMTE #16 THEREFORE INCLUDES SPOILERS. You have been warned!


Tailgate was later than most converging on Swerve's bar. Even with Swerve still 'helping' Ratchet with Ultra Magnus's unlikely recuperation the high grade was flowing like water between the patrons now that Skids was manning the bar.

Normally when the high grade was in this much of an abundance the bar was in riots and Magnus would be throwing fits. But there was no Magnus and there were no riots. Hardly any sound at all actually. Just a hum of reluctant murmurs that was only scarcely audible above the low rumble of the Lost Light's engines that bridged the gaps conversations otherwise to be filled by unsettling silence.

Tailgate clambered onto a seat at the bar. The climb was more of a labour than usual. Apparently the aftermath of a traumatic day was taking its toll. It felt like every piston in his body was locked with rigid tension that Tailgate was certain could only be remedy with a stiff drink.

Skids came to him quickly and Tailgate mumbled his order. He was still reeling from his conversation in the Med Bay – Stress Related Disorder indeed, is this what six million years had done, turned every natural flaw into a medical illness? Was he expected to just pop a pill and get over his grievances? Was that what they expected of Chromedome?

It was too cruel to comprehend and Tailgate found comfort at the bottom of his cube. The dry pink liquid washed down his gullet – burning a dullness into his throat that distracted him from his stress.

Tailgate set the cube down quickly and shuddered. Fists clenched and optics closed tightly he breathed deeply.

"How's Magnus?" Skids spoke and jerked the nearly frantic mini-bot out of a condition that might have fooled a few bots into thinking he actually was suffering from a disorder.

Tailgate watched the drink refill his cube, listening to the steady glug-glug as it flowed out of the bottle and splashed into the cube. He began shaking his head, speech forced itself up his throat but it was an ordeal to form words when he felt so strained. A high keen left him and Tailgate brought his hands up to steady his swimming mind.

"It's awful!" He cried, staring at the ripples in his drink, "Ratchet's got him hooked up to some..._death clock_ Drift called it and it's counting _down." _Against the resounding hush of the bar Tailgate sounded hysteric. Skids leaned forward and did his best to sooth the frayed nerves as he had been doing all evening with many different mechs.

"Magnus has survived worse and death clocks have been known to count up too, you know."

"By a few days! It's nothing to celebrate."

Skids withdrew.

Tailgate ventilated heavily as he tussled with this unusual volatility he rarely had to contend with.

"I'm sorry," He muttered, "I'm just so..."

"I know. We all are. What's happened is unforgivable but we'll get our closure – Rodimus is conducting an inquiry."

"That won't solve anything." Tailgate couldn't council his defeatism. He appreciated what Skids was trying to do – he did. But right now no inquiry or...or civil punishment could reconcile the wrongs and succeed in reverting things to how they were.

"No." Skids hung his head, "I suppose it won't."

He was beckoned from further down the bar but before he moved on Skids spared a glance to the menacing purple shape glowering in a far corner of the bar.

"Tailgate," He grumbled, ducking in low to be discrete, "Watch him tonight," Tailgate swivelled on the stool to stare where Skids had nodded. He saw Cyclonus and when their target of interest realised he'd snagged their attention his claws gripped his cube of high grade like it was his to guard, "He's been guzzling high grade like it's goin' out of fashion and he hasn't stopped glaring at you since you walked in."

Tailgate wondering how Cyclonus was fairing; he doubted anyone else would spare the consideration.

Tailgate deliberated joining him but a moody Cyclonus, he decided, was the last thing he needed at a time like this. He didn't have the patience for it. And moreover, if he lost his patience – which he certainly would if Cyclonus insisted on being his pig-headed self, then it would be Tailgate coming out of the battle worst off.

"I'll be fine – I'll leave him to sulk it out."

It was obvious Cyclonus didn't mourn in the way the rest of them did. And not too long ago Tailgate had been informed that, once upon a time, Cyclonus would have been the one responsible for tearing out Autobot sparks.

Tailgate didn't want to believe _anyone_ was capable for committing such acts but fact was fact. Considering what had happened that cycle Tailgate felt something like resentment for Cyclonus stir inside him. His admiration for the mech was abound and unchallenged, there was no one aboard the ship Tailgate wished to confide in more than Cyclonus but his wits warned him to maintain a professional distance.

Inebriated or not Cyclonus was still Cyclonus, he wouldn't tolerate whimpering. The reason he drank was probably to make the crew's collective woe less troublesome because Cyclonus had seen it all before, often. So often Tailgate guessed he was probably desensitised to the trauma.

In the time Tailgate had been distracted Skids had ventured to attend his other customers leaving the flustered mini-bot to concentrate on his cube. It took longer to finish than his first. His size meant its effect was more potent as well. When he finally descended from the bar stool his knee sockets wobbled and his head felt unbalanced by the weight of lamenting thoughts.

Tailgate slowly weaved between the patrons and tables, every so often staggering in this direction and that. It didn't please him to be thought of as a lightweight but sometimes the limits of his capabilities escaped him.

Skids caught a sight of the mini-bots back just as it disappeared out of the bar. He frowned when he spotted, trailing closely behind Tailgate, Cyclonus. His posture was appalling; he walked with heavy uneven footsteps at a slow, unsteady pace, lurching sharply and often to steady himself against the support of the nearest wall.

Skids shook his head. If Tailgate said he could handle Cyclonus he believed him but that did not banish the worry from his processor.

Tailgate stumbled along the corridors. Fortunately, the hab suite he shared with Cyclonus wasn't too far from the bar but just far enough for him to regulate the churning in the tanks enough to control the need to purge. Although he removed his facemask, just in case and tossed it aside the moment he stepped into the suite.

Once inside it was like a guard filtering his emotions for the sake of saving face in front of company suddenly deactivated.

Somehow, through the shuddering and the guttural grinding of vocal components that constituted blubbing, Tailgate crawled onto his recharge slab and curled tightly in on himself while he waited for the waves of emotion crashing over him like a tsunami tide to ebb. But the torrent continued – the cruel twists of his spark made his insides feel empty.

He thought of Chromedome and realised this was nothing compared to the hurt he must be experiencing. Poor Chromedome. Tailgate hoped he knew how much he sympathised with him. He also hoped Chromedome would never find out how thankful he was that the horrible tragedy hadn't effected him on such an inconsolable level. Tailgate could not fathom such a loss. As he gazed bleakly through the adjacent porthole he imaged Rewind floating there, somewhere in the vast loneliness of space – irretrievable.

Overwhelming feeling throbbed in his processor. Tailgate cupped his face plate in his small hands and whimpered.

He felt lost and unhelpful and more isolated than he'd ever been in his long, long life. The arms he clutched himself with didn't have the same effect of another's. Chromedome and Rewind found comfort with each other now Chromedome was missing that solace at a time when he needed it most. Tailgate wished he had someone to turn to as well.

On queue the door to their hab suite swished open.

Tailgate could sense the dense shadow spreading across him, he could see the outline of Cyclonus's helm imprinted upon the wall.

The door closed with a short hiss and the room was nearly in darkness.

Tailgate listened to Cyclonus's ventilation. It was sharp and without rhythm; much like his movement about their small quarters.

Eventually, Tailgate twisted to survey Cyclonus. Shudders still knocked his plating together and his optics revolved dimly – they felt raw and it was a strain to maintain their function.

Cyclonus's optics were full of thirst.

But Tailgate failed to register this. He was simply grateful to have his friend intact. Because, despite their stark differences, Tailgate called Cyclonus a friend even if Cyclonus didn't possess the capacity to reciprocate the gesture.

"Cyclonus." He murmured softly. Even with the susceptible edge lacing his tone something about his voice must have enticed the larger ex-con because Cyclonus stumbled forward. Tailgate's olfactory sensors registered the tang of high grade, "I...I, um."

Tailgate was, to Cyclonus's relief, completely out of words. Although he would have continued his babble comprised of many nervous um's and ar's Cyclonus put an end to his discomfort.

Tailgate didn't understand.

Moreover he was overwhelmed and almost convinced he was suffering from the dreaded disorder Ratchet pegged to him.

Cyclonus was pushed him back against the berth while climbing on top of his small form, their movement controlled by Cyclonus's face plate pressed to his, his lip components prying Tailgate's apart.

It was pleasant, Tailgate supposed, in a rough, animalist manner.

Cyclonus's lips were damp, his tongue probed deeply before withdrawing, giving Tailgate a moment to collect himself as Cyclonus dragged Tailgate's lower lip between his denta and sucked firmly on it.

Tailgate had an urge to talk but the movement of his mouth was matched by Cyclonus returning to kiss him with an open mouth.

Tailgate felt his fuel pump thundering around inside his chest. The dizzying sensation of the high grade still present in his systems attributed to the overall headiness of the situation.

Cyclonus's hands were as intrusive as the movements of his mouth. The quickly ventured to places Tailgate considered private – tweaking and pulling and groping. Tailgate couldn't deny the attention was desired but it was the wrong _sort_ of attention. It didn't match the circumstance. Tailgate needed assurance now that he was feeling vulnerable, he didn't want to be Cyclonus's drunken escapade, easily taken advantage of because he was in a state.

"Cyclonus..." It didn't come out as the stern reproach he'd intended. Instead it was more a soft keen. At that moment Cyclonus's deft fingers delved into the sensitive seams of Tailgate's interface plate and his resolve was temporarily disbanded.

The panel warmed under Cyclonus's touch. The large Ex-Con snarled against Tailgate's lips and nipped. His denta were as sharp as everything else his frame boasted.

The heat prompted a round of hard, domineering thrusts. Their plating in intimate areas scraped together and Tailgate worries were absorbed with the silly thought of paint transfers and dents.

Cyclonus reeked of high grade. When Tailgate gasped a waft of the pungent odour struck the back of his intake and he got the impression Cyclonus had taken to spilling more of his drinks down his front than into his mouth.

The intrusive touch fiddling with his groin was becoming more demanding. The room was filled with Tailgate's small, poorly stifled moans, the whirl of taxed cooling systems and Cyclonus's occasion beastly grunt as he continued rutting their plating together. His finger tips carved light scratches into Tailgate's aft.

There was no finesse to Cyclonus's methods – just physicality but it was accompanied by an astounding gentleness which Tailgate hadn't realised existed. Nevertheless, Tailgate was unwilling to be used in this way, certainly not by a drunkard.

"Cyclonus." He forced a firmer tone. His small servo flattened against Cyclonus's broad chest, slowly he attempted to pry himself free of the claws gripping his aft and the mouth sucking on his like a leech.

Cyclonus resisted the effort.

He pushed Tailgate's hand aside, grasped it in his larger, stronger hand and pinned it above the mini-bot's head.

A shiver of anxiety passed through Tailgate. Surely Cyclonus wouldn't continue...not if he said no...

When he tried to tilt his head away those lips followed him, demanding, possessive and hungering for more than Tailgate was willing to offer.

Tailgate's manoeuvring under Cyclonus's much larger, imposing body was bordering of struggling.

"No I...Cyclonus, I" – His mouth was devoured again. Cyclonus arched over him.

Tailgate was ashamed to admit his interface equipment was responding positively to Cyclonus. If the mounting reservoir of lubricant was to seep free Tailgate wasn't sure if he could live through the embarrassment...or if Cyclonus could ignore the incentive.

A mixture of fondling and pulling hitched Tailgate's aft higher in Cyclonus' lap. The warmth from Cyclonus' own panel radiated right up to Tailgate's backstruts.

"Ooo." He whimpered and squirmed some more, grinding his aft against that tantalising warmth. He didn't mean to encourage Cyclonus, but when Cyclonus interpreted it as invitation to begin retracting his plating Tailgate decided he couldn't continue deluding the mech.

With his free hand he formed a sturdy fist and pounded it against Cyclonus' chest.

"Cyclonus stop it!"

Cyclonus stopped.

The dangerous lust filling his optics was still there but it had been muted by surprise. He looked quizzical but no less intimidation and Tailgate had never felt more vulnerable under his scrutiny.

Panic invaded his expression.

What repercussions would come from denying someone like Cyclonus?

Once again, confidence dissolved into anxiety.

"I – I I'm sorry b-but I _can't_. I won't interface with you. N-not now. It's too...I'm _really_ s-sorry."

Cyclonus lifted off him slightly. He fixed his optics on Tailgate's but now they looked completely impassive and Tailgate was flushed with shame. Flinched at the slightest of movement, awaiting frustration and...the worst.

An uncomfortable silence extended that, of course Tailgate had to fill with disjointed elaboration.

"...It's just that, what with Magnus and Pipes and, um, Re...Rewind. I'm not sure if I"...

At the mention of Rewind, Cyclonus's expression fluctuated out of the safety of being neutral. The hand still bracing Tailgate's above his head tightened enough to impress a keen sting and a thick thumb brushed gentle strokes over the detailed workings of his palm.

Tailgate's fuel pump stuttered.

A sensation of gravity settled upon him. Tailgate realised that he might have misjudged Cyclonus. Perhaps there was more to this impromptu display of desire.

It took an instance too longer for him to properly justify his sudden conclusion.

In that time Cyclonus ducked down again, eager to recommence.

But Tailgate's hand found his face first. Small, stubby fingers steadied Cyclonus's heavy helm, dipping into crevices and soothing irritated metal.

Cyclonus' optics dimmed. His helm tilted into the welcomed touch.

They remained, suspended in this strange, surreal calmness. Waves of affection exchanged between highly-charged, quivering energy fields. Tailgate offered smooth licks of reassurance against the cracking tempest surrounding Cyclonus.

Gingerly Tailgate retrieved his other hand and settled it against Cyclonus's opposite cheek.

A breath of hot air was expelled from Cyclonus. His frame sagged and the overpowering roar of cooling fans softened.

"I understand." Tailgate muttered. Figuring that the initial gush of desire and need was a forceful front protecting a far more complex and deeply seated fear that formed the root of all of Cyclonus's secret compassions, Tailgate relaxed.

For the first time he understood what feeling cherished was.

When Cyclonus' strong arms scooped him up round the middle and pressed him closely to his chassis Tailgate relished the comfort of another's embrace.

Cyclonus may not express himself as most mechs did but that didn't mean suffering and seeing other people suffer a terrible loss didn't affect him, Tailgate realised. He wound his arms round Cyclonus' neck and held him close – little fingers finding suitable rivets to grip.

"I understand." He murmured again, softly into the audio his lips were pressed again.

Cyclonus nodded against Tailgate's shoulder. Arms pulling tighter round his middle, afraid to relinquish was what _his_ to protect.


End file.
